


Christmas in Brooklyn

by antiquitea



Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquitea/pseuds/antiquitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though they don't have much of anything, Bucky wants to make Christmas special for Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas in Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt from the[Cap Kink Meme](http://capkink.livejournal.com/)._ Anon requested a story about pre-serum!Steve and Bucky during the holidays, trying to make things special for one another.

**December 1, 1941**

He sat on what had once resembled a couch in the living room, a sketch book open and resting on his knobby knees. Well, the couch was still a couch, but the cushions sank into what was left of the springs, and the legs had gone missing a long time ago, so it rested closer to the floor than it was supposed to. All the same, it was a good enough place to sit, and wasn’t so uncomfortable that it was unbearable, but Steve could think of better places to sit. However, the couch sufficed.

Steve had been in the midst of shading a picture that he had been working on for longer than he would care to admit when the door to the apartment was kicked open. His pencil dragged across the page, and he jumped up, causing his sketchbook and pencil to topple to the floor. If whoever was breaking into the apartment he shared with Bucky was looking for anything of value to steal, they were about to be sorely disappointed, but Steve had fists at the ready regardless. Much to his surprise, Bucky came stomping through the door, brushing the snow from his hair before kicking the door closed behind him and crossing the small space between the door and the window.

“It’s snowing out, Steve!” he declared, grabbing the drapes and pushing them open.

“Yeah, that’s great, Buck,” Steve muttered, still a little shaken from the manner in which Bucky decided to make his presence known. “Did you really need to kick the door in, you oaf?”

“Hmm?” Bucky said, turning his attention away from the window and looking at Steve. “Oh, right! Yeah, I got you something. Well, us something. Just a second.”

Steve rolled his eyes a little as Bucky made his way back to the entrance to their apartment. Bucky was like a child when it came to the holidays, constantly over stimulated, and a little exhausting to be around. Steve wouldn’t have changed it in the slightest, though, getting a kick out of the way Bucky obsessed over the details of just about every single holiday, the way he marvelled at the snow when it started to fall from the sky. Bucky had gotten a job at a diner bussing tables at a diner in Manhattan the month before just so that he could acquire a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. Steve didn’t ask whether or not the acquisition of said turkey had anything to do with Bucky looking for work again, but simply smiled and sat on the uncomfortable couch, watching his best friend attempt to cook a turkey in their too-small oven (“Think if I cut it in half it will fit?”)

When Bucky came back into the apartment, he was carrying something in his hand. Steve watched with a furrowed brow as Bucky set the pathetic looking tree in the far corner of the apartment. It was so tiny, it only came up to Steve’s knees, and looked like it couldn’t survive even one ornament being placed on it. He glanced at Bucky, who seemed extremely proud of himself, and couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Like it? They were just going to throw it out. Got it at the tree lot down the street – they didn’t know what they were going to do with it, said no one would buy it. Told’em I would give’em twenty five cents for it. What a steal!” Bucky declared, hands on hips, puffing out his chest slightly. Steve hadn’t said anything, merely smiled as he looked at tree. “So, do you like it?”

Steve pulled his eyes from the tree, the utterly pathetic and sorry looking tree, and looked up at Bucky. “It’s perfect.”

#

**December 13, 1941**

Steve carefully counted out the change that he’d been placing in an old mason jar for the better part of the year, and frowned as he touched the last of the nickels. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough to get something halfway decent for Bucky for Christmas. He sighed and quickly put the money back in the mason jar when he heard the door open, and hid it behind the vent in the bedroom, quickly replacing the grate and making his way into the tiny living room. Bucky was pulling off his coat, his fingertips and nose bright red from the cold.

“Nippy one out there tonight, Steve,” Bucky said, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm them.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Steve warned, pointing a finger at Bucky.

“That hurts,” Bucky teased, placing a hand over his heart. “Listen, what are you doing for Christmas?”

“Same thing I do every year,” Steve replied, walking over to their tiny Christmas tree, which held aloft an angel which Steve had fashioned out of folding some newspaper, and a crudely made star ornament that Bucky had diligently worked on for as long as it took Steve to make the angel.

“That’s what I hoped,” Bucky said, looking serious, though Steve had made his comment almost jokingly. “I’ve got it all planned out, don’t worry.”

“Planned out? Worry?” Steve repeated, furrowing his brow. “James Barnes, what have you gotten yourself into? Neither you or I can make bail if you get arrested for doing something stupid.”

“I said not to worry,” Bucky said reassuringly, putting an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “This won’t be like Thanksgiving, I promise.”

The turkey which Bucky had worked so hard to steal without being caught, and attempted to cook so carefully had ended up catching their oven on fire. Steve had thought it was quite funny, until Bucky had looked legitimately upset about ruining dinner, so Steve had taken them out for some turkey sandwiches at a diner around the block.

“Thanksgiving was fine, Bucky,” Steve assured him. “Really. Listen, I don’t want you going all out for Christmas, okay? Neither of us can afford it.”

Bucky looked particularly wounded at the notion of not even trying to fashion something fantastic. “Don’t be silly. We’ll make it work.”

“Bucky,” Steve groaned, rolling his eyes and flopping onto the uncomfortable couch.

“I won’t set the oven on fire this time,” Bucky promised.

“There’s no oven to set fire _to_.”

“Exactly.”

#

**December 24, 1941**

Looking at the wrapped package in his hands, Steve tried to figure out exactly he was going to put it under a tree that seemed smaller than the present. Giving up, Steve placed it against the wall next to the tree and turned to look out the window. The snow was falling heavily, thick flakes which coated the streets below. Many of the neighbourhood children were out, throwing snowballs at one another and attempting to build snowmen and laying on the sidewalks to create snow angels.

Steve had spent the afternoon sketching, and had frowned upon realizing he was reaching the end of his sketchbook. He’d been fashioning some Christmas decorations – nothing overly fancy, just cut-outs of snowflakes and drawings of Santa Claus, snowmen, and Christmas trees which he stuck to the walls with some tape that he had found in a drawer in the kitchen. The day before, Bucky had gone down to the theatre to buy some popcorn, with the intention of stringing bits of it over the Christmas tree and anywhere they could think of to hang it from. They’d ended up with significantly less popcorn to hang, because both Steve and Bucky had ended up nibbling away pieces while creating the strings.

Bucky had taken a job at the tree lot where he had acquired their own tree, and with it being Christmas Eve, Steve didn’t expect him home until late, given that he knew quite a number of people would wait until the absolute last minute to get their trees. Steve hummed tunes like “Silent Night” as he watched the snow fall and waited for Bucky to come home.

It was close to midnight when Bucky finally did walk through the door, his boss letting him go home before people got out from Midnight Mass, though Steve was curled up on the couch fast asleep. Bucky smiled to himself as he pulled off his coat and gloves, and strode across the room, carefully picking his friend up and carrying him to the bedroom that they shared. After setting Steve down on the mattress, he carefully moved about the living room of the apartment, not wanting to wake Steve before retiring to bed himself.

#

**December 25, 1941**

When Steve woke up on Christmas morning, the snow was still falling heavily outside, and he recalled with a great deal of clarity that he had fallen asleep on the couch, and not in the bed that he shared with Bucky. He sat up quickly, and stretched, throwing his legs over the edge of the mattress, the soles of his feet touching the cold, hardwood floor. He walked out into the living room, and what he saw took his breath away.

Lights. Lights strung up everywhere. Every possible place that Christmas lights of white, red, and green could have been hung from, there were. Along with the decorations and pictures that Steve had made and hung up on the walls, there were others, the kind that looked store bought from Macy’s. On the small dining room table sat two cups of coffee, and two glasses of egg nog. Steve reached out for a cup of coffee and inhaled the scent through his nostrils before tucking into it greedily – it had been months since he’d had a fresh cup of coffee. His eyes scanned the apartment, searching for Bucky, but he was nowhere to be found.

It was when he turned around that he saw it.

The tree was still there – small and pathetic with its paper angel and askew star ornament. But beside it was a thing of beauty – another tree. It was still relatively small, maybe only five feet tall, and it didn’t have many more branches, but it looked significantly fuller than their other tree. On top of it, a real angel, and on its branches, real ornaments. Steve looked at the tree with wonder as he drew nearer to it, mindful not to drop the cup of coffee. From the fire escape just outside the window, Bucky came in, snow covering his head and shoulders, his face red from the cold. He saw the look on Steve’s face, and smiled slowly.

“What do you think?” he asked, looking around the apartment, bathed in the lights from the decorations.

“It – it’s nice. But, Bucky how did you –”

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

Steve stood there for a moment with his mouth open, attempting to form words. “This? This is my present? You – you did all of this for me?”

Bucky shrugged, as if it were nothing. “I had some help. And nothing is stolen, I swear. Some of the guys I worked with at the tree lot helped, gave me old decorations and lights, let me take another tree. I know it’s not much, but –”

“Bucky, shut up,” Steve murmured, turning to look at the tree again so that Bucky couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes. “It’s perfect.” He attempted to wipe at his eyes without Bucky noticing. “Thank you.”

“I got you one other thing,” Bucky said, reaching into the breast pocket of it coat and pulling out something wrapped in newspaper. Steve turned and Bucky held it out to him. “Merry Christmas. Again.”

Steve set the cup of coffee down on the floor, and tentatively took the package. It was all too much; he hadn’t had a Christmas like this since his mother had been alive, and even then it had not been nearly as grandiose and colourful as this. She had scrimped and saved just as he and Bucky did, and he had loved everything she had done for Christmas. Simplistic, understated, and wonderful. Holding the package in his hands, Steve began tearing into carefully, his eyes meeting Bucky’s, who appeared to be waiting on baited breath.

When Steve finally tore the last of the paper away he smiled – it was a sketchbook. “How did you know?”

“You go through sketchbooks like I go through dames,” Bucky laughed, wandering over to the table to grab his own cup of coffee. “You’re easy to shop for.”

Steve smiled, opening the book and breathing in the scent of the white blank pages. “Thank you.”

“Hey, don’t mention it.”

As blasé and nonchalant as Bucky was trying to be, Steve knew that fewer things meant the world to Bucky than making him happy. Neither of them said anything about it, but they both knew. Setting the sketchbook down on the couch, Steve grabbed Bucky’s present, which was still leaning up against the wall, and handed it to Bucky, who looked genuinely surprised.

“Steve,” he said softly, looking almost reverently at the gift, “you really didn’t have to. I know you’re strapped, I’ve seen you with your stupid mason jar, you didn’t –”

“Just open it, Buck,” Steve instructed with a slight nod of his head.

Bucky did as he was told, tearing into the present carefully, biting his bottom lip as it was revealed. Steve had spent his pennies of a picture frame, inside of which he had put some of the photos that he and Bucky had taken at the photo booth at Coney Island the previous summer. They were silly, blurry photos which they had both laughed about afterward, but Steve adored them, and knew that Bucky had too. There were four pictures, in the first one Bucky had Steve in a headlock, in the second Steve looked to be shoving Bucky out of the photo booth, while in the third they had actually attempted to pose like respectable young gentlemen, and in the fourth Bucky was giving Steve a teasing and playful kiss on the cheek, from which Steve was cringing.

“Steve,” Bucky said softly. “I don’t know what to say. This is, this is, well, this is perfect. I thought you’d thrown these out.”

“How could I?” Steve asked with a slow smile. He pointed to the first photo. “I didn’t want people to find it and think that I let you win our fights by putting me in headlocks.”

Bucky chuckled, reaching out and ruffling Steve’s hair affectionately. His hand came to rest along Steve’s jaw, and Steve had shuddered, meeting Bucky’s gaze. It had been an accident as far as the both of them were concerned – looking at each other a little too long. However, it hadn’t taken long for Bucky to close the space between them, bending his head down and placing a bruising kiss on Steve’s mouth. Steve’s eyes had gone wide for the moment, but he found himself melting into the kiss like the first snowfall on the pavement. He was suddenly enveloped in the warmth of Bucky’s arms, and carefully eased down to the floor, where they had continued kissing until Steve’s asthma forced Bucky’s lips to travel elsewhere, nipping at the pulse point of Steve’s neck, his cold fingertips riding up Steve’s shirt and touching the pale skin.

When they had their fill of rutting against one another the floor, Bucky had helped Steve up and dragged him to their bedroom, his hands never leaving his body for an instant. Steve undressed Bucky quickly, where Bucky took his time, hands mapping out Steve’s body, grazing each bone he could feel just beneath his flesh. They had fallen onto the mattress, and Steve had made his way on top of Bucky, sitting astride his thighs and finally learning his body, fingertips brushing against his warm skin, a furnace amidst the cold of their apartment. Whispering the words that Bucky had longed to hear for so many years, Steve realized the gravity of what he had said when Bucky carefully switched their positions and turned Steve onto his stomach, showering his skin with gentle kisses.

At first, Bucky had protested, and Steve had declared that he wouldn’t break, that he could take it. Bucky took his time making sure that Steve was ready, and Steve stood on the precipice for far too long, crying out in anguish for his release. When Bucky finally entered him, as gently as he could, hands resting on Steve’s bony hips as he pulled them up off the bed, Steve pressed his face into the pillow, his fingers tearing into the mattress beneath him, and he cried out with each painfully sweet thrust Bucky made into his body.

Steve was spent within moments, and Bucky followed suit, shuddering above Steve and chanting his name like a mantra, a hand finding its way fisted carefully in his hair. Fighting to catch his breath, his lungs screaming in agony, but his heart so full and his body so warm, Steve had been surprised when Bucky had curled up against him, placing kisses along his sweaty shoulder, covering Steve’s body with his own to keep him warm.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, his lips tracing along the edge of Steve’s ear.

“Merry Christmas,” Steve said in response, a smile stretching his lips so wide that he thought that he may hurt his face.

#

Later that day, as the snow continued to fall from the sky, Steve had dragged Bucky outside, declaring that he wanted to build a snowman and needed help. Bucky helped for as long as he could stand the cold, which wasn’t long, pushing Steve into a snow bank and running back up to their apartment.

When he finally let Steve in, after he had spent minutes pounding at the door demanding to let back in, Bucky pulled Steve into his arms and kissed him until his skin felt as warm as his heart.


End file.
